My Seeing Eye dog Whitney usually leads me to Chicago’s Union Station to catch rides to the suburbs to visit schools, but when a friend from our Hackney’s days offered to drive us to Kindi Academy, a Montessori school in Lisle, Ill., yesterday I jumped at the chance.

Whitney and I at Kindi Academy yesterday.

It was raining in Chicago yesterday, and the train Whit and I would have had to catch left Chicago at 7:40 in the morning. That meant we would have been approaching the train station precisely when commuters were getting off trains. Commuters rushing to work aren’t on the look-out for ongoing pedestrian traffic, not to mention Seeing Eye dogs. We were safer — and warmer — in our friend’s car, plus Pat and I talked so much along the way that the drive flew by.

Kindi is a Montessori School for kids up to eighth grade., Our first presentation was for all the first, second, and third-graders. We spoke to the older kids after that, and the sessions were entertaining, as always. A sampling of their questions:

• What does your dog like to chase?
• If you’re blind, are you still able to cry?
• How long did it take you to learn to read and write Braille?
• How do you write books if you can’t see?
• How does your dog tell you, I mean, if there was a twig on the sidewalk and it was in the way, how does your dog tell you it’s there?
• What inspired you to write a book?
• That day in the doctor’s office, when they told you and your husband that you would never ever be able to see again, were you scared?
• Are all the books you write autobiographies?
• Does your dog recognize it’s your voice when you give a command, or if someone else told your dog to sit, would she sit?

The girl who asked that last question said she thought of it as a hypothesis, and I offered to test it out. “Give it a try!” I told the girl to say Whitney’s name and tell her to sit. She did. Whitney ignored her. “Aha!” squealed the girl. “She only listens to you! With that hypothesis solved, I stood up, lifted Whitney’s harness, said her name and commanded a stern, “Outside!”

The kids were all sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the library rug, and Whitney threaded me safely past them to the hallway door. “Good girl, Whitney!”

The children were wowed, and so was I — by their curiosity, the good manners, and their thoughtful questions. And a special thanks to our friend Pat Gartner for getting Whitney and me to Kindi Academy yesterday — we had a ball!.

Well, a funny thing happened on my way to Friday last week. I landed in the emergency room.

Before I go further: I’m fine. Except for having just lost a chunk of my life in medical la-la land, that is. It all left me with a new commitment to staying out of that place, and a reaffirmation of how amazing lots of doctors and nurses are.

It wasn’t quite this bad….

I’m happy to say that on that particular day, I was relatively low maintenance for them. The biggest challenge I presented was a hairy chest that interfered with electrode sensors. Four different people tried to improve the situation—there was conductive gel, removal and replacement—and several “sorries” after they ripped off an adhesive electrode to replace it. I felt like Steve Carrell in that scene from The 40-Year-Old Virgin.

I got there at 7:30 a.m. It was a busy morning—I was told later the ER had 120 patients at one time and the hospital was nearly full. Those of us who were not in bad shape spent a lot of time on gurneys in the open corridor.

It was also one of the coldest days of the year, and there were at least five people who I judged to be homeless being treated as a result. A social worker was arranging for rides to shelters. Three of these patients were docile, but a couple were belligerent, drawing hospital security to the rescue.

One woman lay on a gurney under a pile of blankets and appeared not to move for hours. And then, she leapt up, butt naked except for a blanket she held over her head and back like a cape, yelling, “I have to pee, I have to pee.” She was assisted and she made it in time. But when she returned she was restless. “I have to call my mama!” She shouted it over and over again. Staff found her a cell phone—last I saw she was talking on it. It wasn’t clear there was anyone else on the other end, though.

There were Chicago cops, one who gave a man in a sling a document with a hearing date—the man appeared to have been an assault victim. The officer wanted to be sure the victim showed up. There were Chicago Fire EMTs who’d brought people in on stretchers with backboards, straight from a car accident.

One young man walked in under his own power, looking very pale. Our paths crossed again after we were brought in for treatment. He was suffering severe shaking in his hands and arms.

There was an elderly, indigent man who had fallen down some steps and separated his shoulder. Staff got him situated, took X-rays, and put in an IV. He was to get a CT scan. As happens in these circumstances, a long lull followed after that prep work was done. The man grew impatient, pulled out his IV, put his clothes back on, and somehow managed to head for the exit using his walker, grimacing in pain the whole time. He was intercepted and talked into staying.

That day was an exercise in managed chaos that made TV depictions look tame. Throughout, staff was mostly unflappable. Kind but firm, honest and caring.Some nurses were on 12-hour shifts, and I did about that much time in the ER myself.

I can’t say enough about the people who took care of me in the ER—the nurses, the docs, the people who wheeled me around from place to place.

But, like I said, I’m not planning on seeing any of them again anytime soon.

News came out this week that Joshua Henry, who played the role of Aaron Burr so perfectly in the Chicago production of Hamilton, is moving on to play Burr when the musical opens in San Francisco this spring.

Josh Henry as Burr.

I’m quite sure I’ve told everyone in the world that thanks to my extremely generous friend Colleen I was able to talk with Joshua Henry as he was leaving the theater the night she and I saw Hamilton together in Chicago last September. I complimented his incredible job conveying anger on stage.

Me: “Were you spitting at the end?”

Aaron Burr: “Oh, did it hit you?”

Me, laughing: “We were in the upper balcony! But towards the end in the second act, even up there, it sounded like you were singing and gritting your teeth and spitting, all at the same time.”

Aaron Burr: (Smiling, you don’t even have to be able to see to know he was.) “That’s exactly what we’re going for.”

We’ll miss you, Josh (I call him Josh now, you know, we’re that close). But if any of you Safe & Sound blog readers are lucky enough to have tickets to see my friend Josh play Burr in San Francisco, trust me, you’re in for a treat. A suggestion: avoid buying tickets within spitting range.

Recognizing that last year was not everyone’s favorite, the Chicago Tribune asked readers to submit stories for the paper to publish as a collection of short pieces defending poor 2016. Sharon Silverman submitted a shortened version of an essay she’d written for one of the memoir-writing classes I lead here in Chicago, and of course the Tribune was delighted to use it. You can link here to read Sharon’s short piece in the Tribune, but here, just for you Safe & Sound blog readers, is the original longer version that inspired Sharon’s submission.

It Doesn’t Get Better Than This

by Sharon Silverman

This summer I traveled with my grandson, Max, to Italy. It was one of the happiest times in my life! Just the two of us — together for sixteen days.

With only one carry-on bag and a backpack each we flew non-stop to Rome. Traveling light is my mantra, and Max succeeded by squishing his clothes into plastic zipper bags including his stuffed animal, Shleppy. Even a thirteen year old needs to have his favorite cuddly pet along for a journey.

Sharon and Max dining in Rome.

There’s nothing like sharing the splendor of Rome with your grandson.

With his encouragement, I make it up the 551 steps of St Peter’s Dome. “Come on, Grandma. You can make it.” My wobbly knee, recently renovated through months of physical therapy, does not disappoint! Looking down into the basilica is an astonishing sight: tiny tourists moving through glistening marble structures and statues. Without Max’s prodding, I wouldn’t have done this.

In the Jewish Ghetto, we walk through history where 2000 Jews once lived. On October 13, 1943 they were forced into trucks transporting them to Auschwitz. We read their names and birthdates listed on golden plaques in front of the homes where they once lived. One marker identifies a three year old boy. We continue walking sadly, holding each other tight as we imagine the horror of that day.

Our travels continue to Naples. Exiting the train we try to find the hotel. It’s hot and steamy. The streets of Naples are dirty and smelly. We’re tired, hot, and hungry. We walk around for some time. Thank goodness we travel light.

At last we find it! Exhausted and relieved we collapse in our room to rest. In the next days, Pompeii, Vesuvius, and the Amalfi Coast make up for the squalor of Naples.

Our last week is an organized trip with grandparents and their grandchildren ages 11-15. We meet the group in Verona, and one night we are treated to the opera La Traviata in the large outdoor arena. I saw Aida here 51 years ago. Now I’m back with Max! Sharing this moment with him now makes me feel so joyful.

As Violetta takes the entire third act to die, Max comments, “This is so cheesy. Die already!” I chuckle with delight.

In Venice we stroll through the winding streets, ride in a gondola, and even make our own masks in a special mask making workshop. Max is happy making new friends with the children in the group, and I’m content leaving the daily planning to the trip organizers.

One of the grandparents is traveling with her grandson for the entire summer — 40 days — and Italy is only one stop. When Max hears this he says, “No offense, Grandma, but I wouldn’t want to be with you for 40 days.” We laugh, and I agree.

The last night, lying next to each other in our respective beds, Max says, “You are the best grandma. Thank you so much! I love you!”

It doesn’t get better than this!

A sampling of beard baubles.

We rang in the New Year with a scrumptious Japanese-style hotpot communal dinner, served up by our friends Jim and Janet and shared with a host of old and two brand new friends. This followed Beth’s family Christmas—each year we draw names and then make gifts for our family member. This year, Beth’s sister Cheryl drew my name and she made me a set of beard baubles, little ornaments of a kind that a hirsute guy like myself can clip onto my bearded face. Cheryl was thorough—there are elaborate baubles for holidays throughout the year. So look out world!

I don’t really do New Year’s resolutions—but I do kind of take stock at this time of year. This year, taking stock included looking back at 2016’s blog posts. Our blogging platform—Wordpress—keeps track of how many people read which posts. And I thought you might want to know that the most popular Mondays with Mike of 2016 was Last Call, my ode to our local tavern Hackney’s—and its patrons—after it closed its doors this past September.

Number two: 50-50? Gus will take those odds, my reflections on the occasion of our son Gus’ 30^th birthday, which was a minor miracle.

The bronze medal went to Mystery of Pittsburgh, which accounted for my trip to Pennsylvania, which included visiting my father’s grave, lunching with my cousins, and taking in a Pirates-Dodgers game at PNC Park.

I’m happy to say, those were my favorites, too.

Thanks to Cheryl, I now have a beard for all seasons.

Which brings me to some advice that E.B. White offered to other writers:

Your whole duty as a writer is to please and satisfy yourself, and the true writer always plays to an
audience of one.

Fundamentally, I agree with White—and I have to tell you that writing Mondays with Mike is, first and foremost, a therapeutic pleasure. But I can also tell you that there is nothing more gratifying than knowing that other people actually read this stuff and that they like some of it.

I can’t thank you all enough. And Happy New Year!